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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24943726">Are You Ready?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda'>LadyGlinda</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Recovered Memories, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, holmescest</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:02:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,078</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24943726</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherrinford, one thing is clear for both of the Holmes brothers - they are in love with one another. They have given it away in that fateful moment when Mycroft offered to die. Now Sherlock wants them to get together. But Mycroft is very hesitant. Very, very hesitant...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>116</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Aftermath Of The Sherrinford Adventure</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/gifts">SlytherinsDragon</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I confess it - sometimes I do read Johnlock fics. Mostly because there are hardly any Mylock fics to read. Seems there are about two authors left and we know who they are :) So I do read Johnlock when it's really good. And the stories of All_I_Need are fantastic. One of them (https://archiveofourown.org/works/9372716) inspired this story. I don't link it directly as I don't really think a Johnlock author wants to have Holmescest linked with their work. Hope you will enjoy this.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h2 class="western">Sherlock</h2><p class="western">It was over. They had made it out alive. Not quite unscarred – his long struggle in the well had left some traces on John, and he might have caught a cold as well. Sherlock’s head was hurting from falling onto it when Eurus had him sedated. Only Mycroft had not suffered a scratch, according to Lestrade; he had probably slumped against the wall when the dart had hit him. Physically, he was the most unharmed of the three of them. Emotionally? Probably not quite.</p><p class="western">Sherrinford had felt like being in a bubble, Sherlock thought. A bubble of mind games and mayhem, of fighting and losing. A weird universe of its own with nobody’s rules but Eurus’ and Sherlock trying (and in the end succeeding) to outsmart her. A bubble which had blown up with all of them being sedated and brought to different places, leaving the memory of them being vulnerable and bare of their shields.</p><p class="western">And now that they were out and he and John were in John’s flat, Sherlock lying on the bed of the guest room, scrubbed and shaved and a hell of awake even though it was the middle of the night, he thought of Mycroft, the Iceman with the heart of a lion. Who had offered to die so John could live and Sherlock wouldn’t have to mourn the loss of another friend. As if killing one’s own brother was nothing out of the ordinary.</p><p class="western">And then it had happened. In this moment, in this bubble of horror, self-sacrifice and manipulation, truths had been revealed, in the presence of an oblivious John. Had Eurus understood? Sherlock doubted it. She was a machine, much worse than he had ever been. She wouldn’t recognise love if it bit her in the nose.</p><p class="western">Sherlock <em>had</em> recognised it. So had Mycroft. In these moments of shattered shields and alleged finalization, something had taken over, had passed between the two of them. Something Sherlock had not seen coming. Had it been buried so deep inside him that it had taken the threat of death to bring it back to light? It had been there before. A long time ago. Before Mycroft had left to climb the ladder of power. Had Mycroft known back then and chosen to ignore it? Or had he truly missed it? Had it been there for Mycroft, too? If so, the following decades must have hurt him deeply. And Sherlock feared that it was the case.</p><p class="western">In this moment when Mycroft had – stupidly – thought that Sherlock would shoot him, which had never been the plan, his brother had shown his hand. And his heart.</p><p class="western">He loved Sherlock. Not just like a brother. He loved the man.</p><p class="western">And Sherlock loved him. And he had remembered how it had woken up in him so many years ago. How he had acknowledged Mycroft's weight loss and turning into a handsome, slim man. How he had admired his way of walking and holding himself. His elegance. Even the power he had always pretended to despise.</p><p class="western">Weird. He had mocked Mycroft with his weight for all this time even though he had very well known that it wasn’t even justified. He had mocked his own feelings for him by doing that. Like he had buried Eurus and Redbeard, he had buried those feelings, too, naturally thinking that they would never be reciprocated. And now he knew that they were and had probably been even back in those long-gone days.</p><p class="western">It had been a sudden decision to send Lestrade to check on his brother, knowing that Mycroft could have hardly missed this revelation and might not want to meet him right now. Mycroft too had clearly seen that Sherlock desired him – again? Still? Who could say? How would his brother be feeling about it? Sherlock knew Mycroft. He was, despite his position of power which required some sort of coldness and recklessness, a thoroughly decent man. He would have never considered acting on his craving for him even if he had ever thought that Sherlock could want him the same way. It would have probably seemed horribly wrong to him.</p><p class="western">But Sherlock wanted him in a most un-brotherly way and he didn't care about it being indecent and illegal. The first hour after finding Eurus in Musgrave had been filled with hectic activity, making it impossible to focus on the matter. But now he’d had time to think. And how he wanted! Wanted everything that Mycroft would want to give him. But Mycroft would need time. And persuasion, if it was possible to persuade him into breaking laws and disregarding morals at all. And for once in his life, Sherlock wanted to show patience and understanding.</p><p class="western">This night had done so much to him. To all of them. And most of all, it had shown him how quickly everything could be over. What if Eurus had not sedated Mycroft? What if she had just killed him? Then it would have been too late. But now it was not. Mycroft had gone to the office after being freed by the police but now he hopefully was at home, recovering, at least for the rest of this night. Lestrade had texted Sherlock to let him know that he was okay.</p><p class="western">And when they met the next time, Sherlock would let him see that his feelings that had been so clearly visible had not been a spur of the moment thing, born out of pressure and fear. He had simply shown his true heart, just like Mycroft had. And there had to be a future for them. Sherlock had once buried his desires. He would not bury them again, not as long as there was a chance that his brother could be convinced that he was serious, and that this forbidden love was worth the inevitable risk.</p><p class="western">Sherlock had never been good at analysing his own feelings. But he had never seen them clearer than he did on this night of dancing with death.</p><p class="western">If there was a way to the heart Mycroft had called ‘not much of a target’, he would find it, and he didn't plan to gamble with it and hurt it. He had hurt his brother enough with so many nasty words and painful decisions. He would not hurt him again. If Mycroft gave him his heart, he would cherish and worship it along with the amazing man who harboured it.</p><p class="western">Sherlock took his phone and sent a short text, and then his eyes closed when sleep finally claimed him.</p><h2 class="western">Mycroft</h2><p class="western">
  <em>Mycroft. I hope you are doing all right. Nothing that happened tonight was your fault. Talk to you soon. SH</em>
</p><p class="western">Mycroft stared at this text for a long time.</p><p class="western">This night had been hell. The games, the deaths that weighed heavily on him, waking up in Eurus’ cell all alone, not knowing what had happened to Sherlock and shivering in fear that his beloved little brother might be dead. Then being freed by the police and told that his brother was more or less unharmed. So was Doctor Watson after his involuntary bath in the well in which Victor Trevor’s remains had been found. Being flown to the office, setting everything necessary in motion for Eurus never being able to repeat such a stunt. A furious Lady Smallwood and a pale Sir Edwin, enquiring him about the deadly events in a prison he had always claimed to be a secure place for his monstrous sister. DI Lestrade checking on him. For a moment, Mycroft had been sad about the fact that Sherlock had left it to the policeman to do so. But then he had understood.</p><p class="western">Sherlock had seen the truth in his eyes. In his smile. And he had, as unbelievable as it seemed, seen the same in Sherlock's face. Love. Pure and simple. Only that nothing about this love was simple. It was scandalous. Not just because of the incest. But because Sherlock had rather seemed to, well, not exactly <em>hate</em> him, but to not care at all about him anymore since this fateful time so long ago when Mycroft had first seen these feelings on his brother and had, horrified, chosen to ignore them. Not <em>despite</em> having reciprocated them but <em>because</em> he had and still did.</p><p class="western">There had always been a special bond between them, from the day Sherlock was born. A bond deeper than ‘normal’ siblings experienced due to the fact that they had been so special. In reality, Mycroft had never thought that Sherlock was an idiot. His feelings for Sherlock had, to his horror, begun to change when Sherlock had been fifteen. It had been before the drug days but not long. If Mycroft had not been so sure that he had managed to conceal his indecent longing for his little brother so perfectly, he might have feared that Sherlock had begun to get high because he had deduced it and couldn’t deal with being leered at by his own older brother. As it was, Sherlock had rather been bored out of his mind without any stimulating company.</p><p class="western">Mycroft had been away at uni, preparing for his exams, ready to start his career. He had reacted much harsher than it would have been appropriate. Terrified of his bright little brother risking his life like this, he had behaved as if he truly despised Sherlock, and it had done damage to their relationship beyond repair, or so he had thought. And then he had realised that under all the spite, Sherlock had developed similar feelings for him.</p><p class="western">It had been a shock. Which would have been a dream come true under different circumstances had frightened him out of his mind. It couldn’t be. They could never act on these feelings. Sherlock had not even been eighteen. So he had been relieved – albeit hurt – when Sherlock had not confessed these feelings but tried to beat them down and gone on acting as if he felt nothing but contempt for him, his ambitions, his clothing and whatnot. It had been way easier like that.</p><p class="western">Time had passed. And Sherlock had seemed to grow out of his crush on him. Mycroft had not seen any signs of it anymore. And he assumed that these feelings had vanished or rather disappeared in the depths of Sherlock's growing mind palace. Mycroft had not been so lucky. He had never stopped longing for his brother, and seeing him bond with John Watson and all the others while he still seemed to despise him had not been nice at all. He had never shown it but the hurt had eaten at him for all this time. It had become a constant companion, along with his love and care for Sherlock. He had endured Sherlock treating him badly as it was still better than mutual feelings that could never be acted upon.</p><p class="western">And now… Now these feelings had been pulled into the light in a situation of pure horror. In one short moment, they had both seen the truth. How was Sherlock feeling about it? He had sent Lestrade to him instead of coming himself. Because he couldn’t deal with knowing that Mycroft loved him back? Just to give him some space after this catastrophe? To have time to think about it until they met again? Yes. The last two possibilities combined seemed most likely.</p><p class="western">They <em>would</em> see each other soon, like Sherlock had texted him – this text being the best proof that he had not asked Lestrade to make sure Mycroft was okay because he wanted to avoid him as he was feeling uncomfortable about this revelation. Mycroft had to inform their parents about Eurus. He had tried to keep the lid on the events of this night but they could always come out. Any of the replaced guards could talk despite having signed a paper that forbade them to do it. It would be an unpleasant conversation, but if Mummy and Father found out about it in the papers, all hell would break loose. And Mycroft, the Iceman, the coldest fish outside of the Thames, did not like Mummy’s disapproval. He didn’t want to be in their bad books. Stupid, ridiculous even but nonetheless true. So he hoped that Sherlock would join him when he told them.</p><p class="western">And then? What would happen? Sherlock couldn’t have probably cared less about those ‘law things’ but Mycroft couldn’t let him smart from deceiving his friends. Because that was what he would have to do if anything happened between them. Probably Sherlock didn’t even want that; in the end he was sexually inexperienced as Mycroft was sure. But what if he did? It scared Mycroft to the bone. He had shown his feelings too openly in a moment in which he had thought he had to die and could do it without being called to account for it. Now he had to live with the consequences, and he had no idea how.</p><p class="western">What he wanted and what was the morally right thing to do was contradictory. He should not even consider leading Sherlock, innocent, virginal Sherlock, down that path. Sherlock might be a grown man who had gone through hell and back, had even killed in order to protect his friends, but in this regard, he was completely inexperienced. What kind of a brother would Mycroft be if he took advantage of this? His life goal had always been to protect Sherlock, and he should support him in finding happiness with anyone but him – certainly not the mousy Miss Hooper (wrong sex and totally out of Sherlock's league) but perhaps even the violent Doctor Watson, who had obviously redeemed himself in Sherlock's eyes completely, if little brother had thought the man had to redeem himself in the first place...</p><p class="western">How could he even think of doing something that wrong and unspeakable? It had always been a fantasy, actually not even that. He had never allowed himself to fantasise about carding his fingers through Sherlock's thick curls. To press his lips onto these marvellous cheekbones. To kiss this amazing mouth. To explore Sherlock's body and be explored by him...</p><p class="western">But when he finally sank down onto his bed to get at least a bit of sleep in what was left of this – in many ways – memorable night, he wondered if Sherlock would perhaps insist on crossing that line – and if he, Mycroft, would be able to fight something he truly and utterly wanted.</p><h2 class="western">After The Meeting With The Parents</h2><p class="western">Mycroft hadn’t felt like this in decades. Like a chided little boy… The acidic words were echoing through his mind.</p><p class="western">‘<em>Idiot boy.’</em></p><p class="western">‘<em>Then he’s very limited.’</em></p><p class="western">‘<em>Then you should have done better!’</em></p><p class="western">Mummy’s fury and, there was no other way to put it, contempt.</p><p class="western">Father’s disappointment and uncharacteristic criticism.</p><p class="western">It had thrown him back to a time when he had felt as if he could do nothing right. He had been a weird child from day one. He had never cried, he had been told later. Unlike Sherlock, who had screamed the house down as a baby. Mycroft had just watched. He had been all about thinking from the moment he was born. Scrutinising everybody with his cold blue eyes.</p><p class="western">He had heard them talk. Every time a relative came by, they had looked down at him. Judging. Calling him ‘strange’ and ‘creepy’ when none of his parents had been around. Thinking he wouldn’t understand. But he had, and he recalled every nasty word. And later he wondered why those people had not made such comments in his parents’ company. They might have very well agreed with them...</p><p class="western">He, as well as Sherlock, had gotten their intelligence from their mother. But Mummy was still nothing like them. She was social and open and always ready to laugh, loving to dance and have fun, just like her husband. What should people like them do with a complicated child like him? Not much. He had been furthered. Gotten his own teacher at four. He had craved learning new things and had been able to speak three languages fluently with seven. But his parents had not been as proud as one could have expected. They had seemed rather… disturbed by him.</p><p class="western">And then Sherlock had been born, and finally, Mycroft had had someone who was like him. Perhaps that was why he loved Sherlock so much. Why his little brother was so dear to him and had always been, even in those dark times when Sherlock had shown nothing but contempt for him, too. And now he wondered why he had been shocked by the feelings they had developed for each other. For whom else should they have harboured them? Nobody was like them. Except for Eurus, and she was even less lovable than Mycroft. All those years ago, he had caught himself feeling a bit gleeful about his parents having to deal with a third child that was an even greater disappointment and menace, up to the point at which it had to be sent away. He had not been sad at all to see her go. She had hurt his little brother by taking his friend away from him, turning him into a pensive, closed-up child, stealing his smile and his joy and in the go, his affection for Mycroft.</p><p class="western">And now Eurus had made a spectacular reappearance and instead of being terrified by her crimes, his parents were blaming him for hiding her from them, as if they could have helped her become a less psychopathic person. Everybody in this room knew that there had never been a chance for that. Eurus had been born brilliant just like he and Sherlock. But she had also been born evil and no visit in the prison and no word of affection would have changed anything about it.</p><p class="western">Or perhaps he had been wrong about that. In the end, she had told Sherlock how to save his dear John – just because Sherlock had been kind to her. She had let them lock her away again without resistance.</p><p class="western">And now Sherlock had told their parents that he was going to visit her and communicate with the now – by choice – mute woman through the only instruments that might work: their violins.</p><p class="western">Mycroft was not sure if he should be hurt that Sherlock wanted to bond with the sister who had wanted to see him – and Sherlock's beloved Doctor Watson – dead, or if he should be grateful that little brother had tried to placate their parents with this decision.</p><p class="western">Sherlock had taken his side after all. Had tried to defend him. Not too openly but Mycroft had very well noticed it. And for that he was definitely very grateful.</p><p class="western">Now they were alone – Mummy and Father had just stumbled out of his office. Mycroft had promised them that they could see Eurus if she reacted positively to Sherlock going there.</p><p class="western">“You will be supervised for every second,” he said quietly after closing the door behind the old people.</p><p class="western">“Naturally,” nodded Sherlock.</p><p class="western">“If she tries to reprogram you…”</p><p class="western">“...I’ll be out the next second and never come back. I’m not a fool, brother. And I have certainly not forgotten what she’s done.”</p><p class="western">Mycroft sighed and sat down in his chair again. Sherlock was still leaning against the wall. “I know. It’s just…”</p><p class="western">“I understand.” Sherlock walked towards his desk. “It must be hard. But don’t you dare think I value her above you. Not in the least. I had to…” He sighed. “To save John, I had to be nice to her.”</p><p class="western">Mycroft was well aware that this was only half the truth. “And you want to be a good brother for her.” He said it calmly, without an accusing undertone. In the end, who should understand better how that felt?</p><p class="western">Sherlock bit his lip. “Maybe. Yes. I know you won’t understand that and you certainly hate her…”</p><p class="western">“Ah, Sherlock. I always tried to make life as bearable as possible for her under the circumstances. I know you saw her cell. It looks cruel. Cold. But it’s like she wanted it. If she had desired it, the walls would be plastered with paintings and there would even be plants. But she doesn’t care. She only lives in her own head.”</p><p class="western">Sherlock nodded seriously. “I know. She was just so… vulnerable, when I was alone with her afterwards. And she did not fake that.”</p><p class="western">“Well, she chose not to kill me when she had the chance as it would have obviously only counted if <em>you</em> had done it…”</p><p class="western">“I never would have, Mycroft. I thought you’d deduce it. That I was just playing for time and waiting for the right moment to turn the gun against myself.”</p><p class="western">Mycroft had not seen that coming. Even though he had known that Sherlock had fancied him all this time ago, he would have never thought that Sherlock would pick John to kill him. Well, he had not, after all. He had picked himself, and Mycroft would always recall how watching that had felt. “What if she had not interfered?”</p><p class="western">“I guess, brother mine, then you would have had to face our parents' wrath on your own.”</p><p class="western">“That’s not funny.”</p><p class="western">Sherlock sighed. “I know. It was an impossible situation. And it wouldn’t even have been if either of us had figured out that there was no plane to begin with.”</p><p class="western">“It was not my proudest hour. None of this. It was… horrible…” Mycroft wondered if Sherlock thought that he was a weakling for not being able to shoot the governor.</p><p class="western">But Sherlock gave him a look full of sympathy. “It was. And not everyone is a killer. By the way I’m sure that she would have killed the wife anyway. Just because she could.”</p><p class="western">That was probably true. They would never know for sure. “What about Miss Hooper? Did you talk to her?”</p><p class="western">Sherlock grimaced. “John spoke with her. She’s pretty much devastated. She might have even hoped I had meant it, even though she had forced me to say it. Women. I will never understand them.”</p><p class="western">“Me neither.” Mycroft thought of Lady Smallwood with a shudder. She hadn’t reacted that well at being refused when he had stupidly met her for a drink, which he had, very naively, thought was only a drink. Eurus, Mrs Hudson, Molly Hooper, Elizabeth, his mother… He had never been good with them…</p><p class="western">“I’m sure Molly will get over it. Mycroft…”</p><p class="western">Mycroft stiffened at the change of tone and Sherlock's look. Now it was coming. His throat had suddenly become completely dry.</p><p class="western">“Can we talk? About what happened in these moments when… You know when…”</p><p class="western">“Sherlock, don’t. I can’t speak about this now.” Their parents had just left for God’s sake. Sherlock was his family. His little brother. He could not do that. Sherlock was troubled and had been for a long time, thanks to the Watsons and the complications he had suffered from because of them. He might just want… affection. He and John were friends again but Mycroft had seen them interact only very recently after all. Their friendship had survived but it would never be as cosy again as it once had been. Too much had happened. Sherlock was not exactly lonely. He still had John, Mrs Hudson and Greg Lestrade and even the hurt Molly Hooper. But neither of them was really close to him. And after what the two of them had just gone through together… Perhaps Sherlock was just confused. He had obviously recalled those long forgotten feelings and now he thought he had to act on them. But tomorrow he might find something more interesting to think about…</p><p class="western">“Not now,” Sherlock said, nodding. “That means… I can ask you again?”</p><p class="western">Mycroft knew he should put a stop to this right away. Permanently. Dismiss the mere possibility of them ever being something more than brothers. But somehow… he didn’t have the heart to do it. “I… Maybe. I don’t know. Or when… If…” God. He was stammering like an imbecile. His brain felt dizzy and numb.</p><p class="western">But Sherlock smiled at him. “I understand. Very well. We won’t lose contact though, right? In fact, I would love to spend more time with you. As brothers. For now.”</p><p class="western">Mycroft felt deeply touched. His brother was serious about this. And it didn’t sound as if he would drop him again anytime soon. If all they accomplished was getting along better as brothers, it would be a huge improvement. And all he should wish for! “I would like that. A lot. What will you tell John?” He bit his lip. What a stupid question. There was nothing to tell.</p><p class="western">“The truth,” Sherlock said calmly. “That I have realised that you are a good man. And that I want to get to know you better. John and I don’t hang around all the time with each other, Mycroft. Those times are over. He has a real job now and a daughter to raise. He’ll be glad to have some time for himself.”</p><p class="western">Mycroft nodded. “Good. Because… whatever happens, I mean, if… Nobody may know.” He was really eloquent today. And why was he even considering this? It was wrong!</p><p class="western">But Sherlock gave him a look full of understanding. “Of course not. Even though I may be the slow one, I do know that.”</p><p class="western">Mycroft felt horrified. “Sherlock, you know I did not mean anything of -…”</p><p class="western">“I know. Sorry, I couldn’t resist teasing you a bit.” Sherlock bent over his desk and suddenly his face was very close to Mycroft's. “I won’t change my mind, brother. I’m not such a fickle creature anymore. I know my own mind. And I want you. All of you. I wanted you a long time ago and even though I chose to forget about it, like I obviously did with quite a few things that were difficult to deal with, it’s back now. And it won’t go away. But I understand that it scares you. You think you have to protect me at all costs, even from yourself and what you think are wrong feelings. They are not. I return them.” He straightened up again, and Mycroft was watching him in awe. “Take your time. But I will ask you again. Bye now.”</p><p class="western">“Goodbye, Sherlock.” Mycroft was happy that he managed to even get these words out after Sherlock's touching speech.</p><p class="western">This was scary. Madness. He recalled their parents’ upset faces. If their mother despised him already now, what would she say if he got intimate with Sherlock? Not that she would know… But the thought made him still feel very uncomfortable.</p><p class="western">He wanted it. But he had learned a long time ago that what you wanted was not always what you should have.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Road To Happiness</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">Sherlock went to Sherrinford alone the first time. It was a weird feeling to be back in those creepy halls and Sherlock tried hard to school his expressions as he was thrown back to the horrific day. The guards had all been exchanged and the new governor, a woman around fifty, seemed competent and incorruptible but who could say… Eurus, still dressed in a ghostly white ensemble, stared at him with a strange, other-worldly expression. And when they raised their violins and started to play, she smiled.</p><p class="western">Sherlock could literally feel Mycroft watching them at every second of their play, his eyes never leaving the monitor so he would not miss if Eurus tried to infiltrate Sherlock's brain. But she didn't. Sherlock could feel that she had given up. His sister would never help the government again, nor would she try to inflict mayhem on more or less innocent people again. She was lost in her own world, only reachable by music. Like Mycroft had said – she had passed beyond their view. But she did know that Sherlock was here. That he didn't leave her all alone. And that had to count for something, didn’t it?</p><p class="western">The next time, Mycroft came with him. Along with their parents. And Mummy and Father could see for themselves that Mycroft had been right. It was impossible to communicate with her. Apart from through the music. So they listened to the younger Holmes siblings playing their duet, and when Sherlock joined them afterwards, he could see that the parents had forgiven their elder son and that there had been tears and deep relief on Mycroft's side, which touched Sherlock more than he showed his brother. They were both softies, he concluded dryly.</p><p class="western">When they were alone again after putting the parents into a cab that would bring them to the train station (after Father had almost gotten sick in the helicopter that had brought them back to London), Sherlock could feel Mycroft's gratitude.</p><p class="western">He didn’t ask him again if they could talk, knowing that it wasn’t the right moment. Too much family. Too obviously being related. But he gave Mycroft a look, telling him that he hadn’t forgotten and that he hadn’t changed his mind. And Mycroft gave him a careful smile which expressed gratitude and affection.</p><p class="western">Three weeks passed. Quiet weeks. Tense weeks. Sherlock solved some cases. John, who occasionally joined him, didn’t blog about them anymore. Mycroft did his job. The two Holmes brothers met for dinner. For lunch, if they were both available for a quick sandwich or even a real meal. They talked about everything and nothing. Mycroft's job. Eurus. Sherlock’s cases. Never touching the touchy subject.</p><p class="western">Sherlock didn’t ask once in all this time. He could see that Mycroft was not ready. If he had thought that his brother ruled it out for good, he would have buried his hopes. It would have hurt but he would not drop him as a brother. Never again. But he could see that Mycroft did want it. He just thought he should not have it.</p><p class="western">Patience. A concept that Sherlock had always abhorred. He learned it now.</p><p class="western">One evening, they were walking away from the restaurant they had dined in through chilly air, side by side. Sherlock was hyper aware of his brother’s closeness. And he knew he had to make a try. He was not very hopeful for a positive answer but still. He could not let Mycroft think he would never do it.</p><p class="western">“Are you ready now?” he asked, quietly.</p><p class="western">Mycroft stopped walking abruptly. His blue eyes stared at Sherlock in utter panic. “No. I… I’m sorry.”</p><p class="western">Sherlock nodded. He was afraid, his big brother. Of the changes it would bring, no matter how lovely they would be. Of the consequences if it came out. Not that it ever would. If <em>they</em> couldn’t deceive the world, then who? And Mycroft had to know that, too.</p><p class="western">But Sherlock didn’t speak out a word of this. He settled for, “Okay. But I will ask you again.”</p><p class="western">And Mycroft nodded for just a second, avoiding his look, and Sherlock felt – next to slight frustration and increasing longing – a tiny bit of hope.</p><p class="western">*****</p><p class="western">It had been a surprisingly nice evening, Mycroft thought another three weeks later. Not that Mycroft had not had any nice moments with Sherlock lately, quite the opposite. His brother’s behaviour towards him had made a hundred and eighty degree about-turn. No jokes at his expense. No contemptuous remarks. No hurtful sarcasm.</p><p class="western">When they met for lunch or dinner, usually in very private little restaurants where nobody paid any attention to the famous Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock was as courteous as anyone could be. When Mycroft told him something, he actually listened and remembered it the next time they met. And he spoke about things that moved him as well. As if they were friends. Or the brothers they had never really known to be.</p><p class="western">But Mycroft never really relaxed. He was always waiting for the question. <em>‘Can we talk?’</em> It didn’t come every time they met, not nearly. But there was no pattern. It could come anytime or it couldn’t. Sometimes there were no actual words spoken. Sherlock just raised his eyebrows, sending the question with his eyes alone. And Mycroft would always shake his head or apologise.</p><p class="western">How could he do it to Sherlock? How could he burden him with an incestuous affair? No, not an affair. Sherlock was clearly not looking for that. Something as banal and vulgar as an affair wouldn’t make him want to pursue something so forbidden and scandalous. Only something that meant a lot, if not everything, could make a man who had never cared about sex and relationships in all his life crave it now.</p><p class="western">And Mycroft craved it, too. He craved burying his face in the crook of Sherlock's swan-like neck. Plundering his amazing mouth. Covering his beautiful body in kisses. Becoming one with him by… And at this point it stopped being dreamy and magical and became dirty and horrible. How could he wish to penetrate his brother’s <em>[glorious] </em>behind? Besmirch him with his nasty needs and his seed? How could Sherlock even consider letting him do that? In some really dark moments, he wondered if it hadn’t been a spell from Eurus, which was working in both of them. And when he remembered for how long they had both been harbouring those feelings, if Sherlock had remembered them in the meantime or not, he considered that she had perhaps planted these desires in them even as a child.</p><p class="western">He did know that was stupid. A convenient excuse for feeling for Sherlock like he did and like no older brother should. But Sherlock felt the same way. And Mycroft wanted nothing more than giving in. But what if…</p><p class="western">“I can see it’s not a good time to ask you,” Sherlock said, dryly.</p><p class="western">They had shared their dinner in Baker Street for a change. And John had joined them for a while before going to his shift, leaving his daughter with Mrs Hudson. It had been a planned meeting, no nasty surprise by Sherlock. His brother clearly wanted Mycroft to see how kind the doctor was these days. Mycroft still didn't trust the man, of course not. What he had done to Sherlock was inexcusable in his eyes. Not in Sherlock's, though. They were best friends again, clearly. And Mycroft did remember the moment when John had tried to keep Sherlock from shooting him in Sherrinford. That had been brave. And he knew that John had saved Sherlock from Culverton Smith in the end – even though Sherlock would have never been at the mercy of this maniac if it hadn’t been for John in the first place. Mycroft still didn't exactly like the man. But he had to admit that the conversations had been nice, even funny at times, tonight.</p><p class="western">“No,” he said now. “Not a good time. And it will never be a good time.” He saw Sherlock's face fall. “I mean… I do… You know I want you. But how can I?” They had never gotten so close to actually talking about it.</p><p class="western">Sherlock's expression softened. “I know it’s something to wrap your mind around. But I’m not a child anymore. I told you before. I’m a man and even though I am inexperienced in this area, I still know exactly what I want.” He stepped into Mycroft's personal space, and Mycroft flinched and held his breath, but he didn’t step back. “You,” Sherlock added and his lips were so close to Mycroft's cheek that they almost touched it. Close enough to feel his breath on his face. His warmth. So close…</p><p class="western">All he would have to do was turn his face just a bit. And kiss him. And he wanted nothing more than that.</p><p class="western">And then he heard John come out of Mrs Hudson’s flat, bidding her goodbye, and he pulled back. It couldn’t be. John would never accept this. And he might find out and it would destroy Sherlock, and Mycroft couldn’t let that happen.</p><p class="western">Sherlock just looked at him, his eyes full of affection, and he clearly tried not to show that he was disappointed.</p><p class="western">Mycroft raised his hand and briefly pressed Sherlock's shoulder, and then he took his umbrella and left after a soft goodbye.</p><p class="western">*****</p><p class="western">“God, where have you been?! Do you have any idea how worried we all were?” Mycroft was standing behind his desk, his pulse racing. “You can’t just disappear for days and… How did you even do that?!” His brother was still under surveillance of the Secret Service. Well, that had worked greatly over the years… He had still saved Irene Adler under their nose and Mycroft had learned about it weeks later when she had appeared in the States, causing trouble for rich people as it was her habit. And Sherlock had still gotten to Magnussen with Mycroft's top-secret laptop and then shot the man… And now he had managed to fly under the radar for almost a week, doing God knew what! To scare him? To make him realise how it would be to lose him? As a punishment for not debating about a possible mutual future as lovers?</p><p class="western">Sherlock looked impeccable as always. At least at first view – his hair was clean, his clothes were a bit rumpled but not dirty, either. When looking closer, Mycroft could see the signs of not sleeping, not eating and not resting for days. He was relieved to no end that his brother seemed otherwise unharmed. But the past days had been horrible and he had not slept a lot, either, wondering where Sherlock might have gone and if he was okay.</p><p class="western">“I’m sorry, brother mine,” rumbled Sherlock. “John chided me, too. In very clear words. Molly knew that I was doing fine though.”</p><p class="western">“What? Why her?” Mycroft experienced a very ridiculous and silly attack of jealousy of the pathologist, who had not long ago confessed her love for his brother. Silly because he should know by now who Sherlock was really interested in – someone who loved him back in equal measures but was too cowardly to act on his feelings...</p><p class="western">“Because she is used to keeping quiet about my whereabouts,” Sherlock retorted dryly, clearly hinting at her assistance during his fake death. “It was a surprise, that’s why I didn’t want to tell anyone else. I’m sorry if it frightened you.”</p><p class="western">“Of course it did. Don’t do that again if you don’t want to see me in an early grave.”</p><p class="western">Sherlock swallowed visibly. The daft sod. He really still had no idea how much people worried about him. Especially Mycroft. But there had certainly been a case. A case so exciting and alluring that he had not even shared it with Doctor Watson. Or he had simply left him behind because John was tied up with his clinic job and his daughter. And despite him looking so meek now, Mycroft did still not rule out that just perhaps, Sherlock had very well known that everybody, especially Mycroft, would be worried to bits about him and had made a point with it.</p><p class="western">“I’m really sorry,” the detective said. “But I had my reasons. Here.” He took a small package out of his coat pocket. Plain brown paper, more than a bit crumpled.</p><p class="western">“What is that?” Mycroft took it from his hand.</p><p class="western">“See for yourself.”</p><p class="western">Mycroft unwrapped the package and then stared in shock at what he had revealed. “But that’s… No!”</p><p class="western">“Yes. It took me some time to get around taking the case but in the end, I did.”</p><p class="western">Mycroft remembered very well how Sherlock had reacted when he had suggested attempting to find this precious item that had been lost for so long.</p><p class="western">‘<em>It’s a </em>pearl<em>. Get another one.’</em></p><p class="western">But here it was. The beautiful Black Pearl of the Borgias. “How did you find it? Where was it?”</p><p class="western">Sherlock smiled. “A genius never gives away his methods. It’s yours to do what you want with it. Oh – if there’s a reward, I think sharing it would be nice.”</p><p class="western">“Of course we will. And it will be generous.”</p><p class="western">“Excellent. New suit for me then.” Sherlock winked at him.</p><p class="western"><em>Now he will ask me again</em>, Mycroft thought, his heart beating faster. <em>He will want to know what I feel for him and whether I’m ready to be with him.</em></p><p class="western">But instead, his brother just gave him a knowing look, waved at him, turned and left his office, leaving a stunned, confused Mycroft behind.</p><p class="western">*****</p><p class="western">By the time it happened, Sherlock had given up hope. He had done everything he could. He had wined and dined his brother. He had even cooked for him. Bought him little treats. Cakes. A tie for his new suit. A book his brother had been searching for for ages. Sherlock had visited him when he had been sick with the flu and made tea for him and cooled down the fever. Even gotten that godforsaken pearl. Mycroft had been very pleased about everything. Moved even. They had been getting along just fine.</p><p class="western">But the bravest they had done had been a dry peck on the cheek as a greeting or a goodbye. Whenever Sherlock had asked, <em>‘Are you ready to talk about it?’</em>, Mycroft had breathed a <em>‘Not yet’</em> or had shaken his head before Sherlock had brought out the third word.</p><p class="western">It had felt more hopeless with every week that passed. And the longer Mycroft had stayed stubborn or decent, depending on who you asked, the less Sherlock had believed that he would ever change his mind.</p><p class="western">Of course Sherlock had not been brooding about it all the time. He had been way too busy for it. He still visited Eurus about twice a week, sometimes with the parents, sometimes even with Mycroft, but most of the time alone, knowing that Mycroft was still watching them like a hawk. He had solved plenty of cases, mostly alone as well. John had been dating again and with his job and Rosie, he had hardly had time to accompany him to crime scenes. It had felt like old times, the times before John had appeared in his life. But it was still different as he and Lestrade were friends now. Even Donovan was bearable these days.</p><p class="western">But Sherlock had begun to feel lonely and pensive when he was not occupied. There was nobody to talk to about his feelings. His so far disappointed expectations. Only that he knew very well that he was not even prone to having these expectations. He could understand his brother, who would risk a lot more than him with an incestuous relationship. No matter how stupid it seemed considering two male adults, it was forbidden and threatened with imprisonment. Mycroft's great relationship with the Queen would certainly be over if it came out… But Sherlock knew that this was not even the reason. The real reason was Mycroft's fear of abusing him, as laughable as this might be, and the problem of how they would be dealing with each other if it didn’t work. For Sherlock, that was ridiculous, too, as he knew he would not change his mind and would do everything in his power to make it work as he knew it was exactly what he wanted.</p><p class="western">In any way he had stopped asking eventually. A week ago. And he tried to forget his feelings and to put all his energy into improving their brotherly relationship as much as possible. And he tried to not seem sad about it, which was very difficult. But he knew that he had to respect Mycroft's decision.</p><p class="western">This was the situation on this evening thus far. They had enjoyed their dinner – takeaway from Angelo’s for a change – and were sitting in two armchairs in Mycroft's posh living room with a fine glass of whiskey. They were having a very interesting conversation about the Collatz Conjecture – one the few unsolved mathematical problems – when Sherlock's phone rang.</p><p class="western">“Sorry,” he said. Usually he switched it off when they were together. Like Mycroft, surprisingly enough.</p><p class="western">Mycroft just smiled. “Might be a case.”</p><p class="western">Sherlock saw that it was indeed Lestrade. “Yeah.”</p><p class="western">Mycroft gestured for him to answer it and Sherlock took the call and listened to an excited detective inspector, telling him a story about three bodies that had been found in three different areas of London, each of them bearing another letter on their stomachs, written in the same creepy handwriting in human blood. Sherlock threw in some remarks to include Mycroft in the conversation. Every once in a while, their eyes met and Sherlock watched him sipping at his whiskey.</p><p class="western">“I will look into it tomorrow,” Sherlock said in the end. He listened for another moment. “No. I’m busy now, sorry. Tomorrow morning, eight, the Waterloo Road victim’s house. Send some pictures so I can have a look before. Bye.” He switched off his phone and stored it in his shirt pocket. “Where were we?”</p><p class="western">Mycroft regarded him with a very strange look and got up. “Now.” He closed the distance between them.</p><p class="western">“Sorry what?”</p><p class="western">“I’m ready now.”</p><p class="western">Sherlock gaped at him, getting up as well, almost without noticing it. “You are ready… to talk about… us?”</p><p class="western">Mycroft softly shook his head. “No. Not to talk about it.” And then he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and kissed him on the lips, and a glass fell onto the thick carpet with a soft thud.</p><p class="western">*****</p><p class="western">The moment his mouth met Sherlock's and his arms instinctively closed around the lithe form of his little brother, a myriad of emotions exploded in Mycroft's heart. Doubt and guilt were still among them. But they were overpowered by joy and deep affection and gratitude that Sherlock was still there, was still putting so much effort in their thus far only brotherly relationship. For weeks on end he had refused giving in, eventually seeing Sherlock give up all hope. It had been so hard. How could you refuse someone if you wanted nothing more but to be with them?</p><p class="western">And now that their kissing got more passionate by the second and he had an armful of stunned and pliant baby brother, Mycroft wondered why he had even bothered. It was what Sherlock wanted, what they both wanted and to hell with decency, law, and morals. He would have to take precautions in case it came out and backfired at them. It would be worth it. Being with his brother the way they both desired it was worth everything.</p><p class="western">In opposition to what Sherlock had thought, Mycroft’s resistance had been crumbling more and more. With every moment they had been spending with each other, it had become harder to remain steadfast against the temptation that was his beloved, alluring little brother. He had fought it and even fooled Sherlock into thinking it was hopeless. But he had not been able to fool himself.</p><p class="western">And now that he had watched Sherlock turning down a case, at least for tonight, which had sounded very interesting, had been the breaking point. Sherlock really preferred spending time with him over the thrill of the chase. That had not been a ruse or a strategy. Even though he had thought that he would never have Mycroft the way he desired, he had still chosen him over a fascinating case.</p><p class="western">And when he was savouring Sherlock's taste and scent and the feeling of his weight in his arms, his arousal matching Sherlock's unmissable one, he wondered why he had been so stubborn and idiotic for so long.</p><p class="western">When they finally broke apart for a much needed breath, he stroked Sherlock's face. “I’m sorry, little brother.” The next moment, he cursed himself as Sherlock's eyes widened in something that was close to panic and even more pain, and he hastily added, “Sorry for letting you wait for so long, I mean.”</p><p class="western">Sherlock scrutinised him for a moment and then his beautiful, reddened lips turned into the most gorgeous smile that Mycroft had ever seen. “You are forgiven. I understood it. But… you won’t change your mind again, will you?”</p><p class="western">Mycroft shook his head with conviction. “No. There is a lot to talk about and rules to be set as nobody may find out as I don’t want you to lose your friends and…” He broke off and kissed Sherlock on the nose. “We will figure it all out. We are Holmeses. But if you’ll have me, I’ll be yours.”</p><p class="western">“I can do with you whatever I want?”</p><p class="western">“Well… If you don’t mean experimenting with me…” Mycroft grinned and Sherlock laughed out loud.</p><p class="western">“I might mean that. But in a very pleasant way. Like right now.”</p><p class="western">“Well then. Let’s get more comfortable upstairs, shall we?” They really had waited long enough.</p><p class="western">Without another word, Sherlock grabbed his hand and more or less dragged him out of the room, and Mycroft hurried to keep up with him, smiling and knowing that there was no way back anymore and fuck the consequences – it was about time for the brothers Holmes to become the lovers Holmes, too.</p><p class="western">*****</p><p class="western">Making love to Mycroft was nothing like Sherlock had imagined it. If he had allowed himself to even have expectations concerning such a thing before. But he had not thought it would be like this. It was so much greater than anything he could have pictured or wished for.</p><p class="western">Now that Mycroft had – out of the blue – gotten rid of his doubts and no’s and <em>‘we can’t do that’s’, </em>or had at least chosen to ignore all this crap, he was wasting no more time. He was, frankly spoken, taking Sherlock apart, and under all his wriggling and moaning and begging for more, Sherlock saw no reason to complain about it.</p><p class="western">Baby brother was like the most precious gift on Christmas, Mycroft thought, while his teeth were nibbling at a swan-like neck and the tips of his right thumb and forefinger were tweaking the soft but rapidly hardening bud that was Sherlock's left nipple.</p><p class="western">They had undressed in eager haste, both taking glimpses at the increasing amount of pale skin that had been revealed – smooth, heavily scarred skin that had aroused Mycroft - and made his heart heavy at the troubles his little brother had gone through in recent years. And slightly freckled, hairy skin that had delighted Sherlock and wanted him to bury his face in the manly fur – and made him feel bad about all the unnecessary and unjustified remarks about his brother’s alleged need for weight loss that he had thrown in his direction over the past decades at the sight of Mycroft’s flat belly.</p><p class="western">They had crashed then in a needy, frantic kiss and landed on Mycroft's neatly made bed in a pile, Sherlock groping for every body part he could reach until he was urged to lie on his back so Mycroft could have his tender but firm way with him.</p><p class="western">Sherlock was delighted at his brother’s skilful ministrations – the deft touches of his hands, the non-bruising sucks of soft lips and sharp teeth just on the right side of pain, the cleverly applied pressure of his fingers or his full weight. But also more than a bit jealous of any possible previous recipient of similar caresses.</p><p class="western">Mycroft experienced a not-at-all surprising attack of guilt when his hand found his brother’s fully erect cock for the first time and winced when an inner voice that horribly sounded like his mother’s screamed at him to let go of his own little brother for God’s sake – but was then surprised at how quickly he was able to shoo it away. It was nobody else’s business. As long as he did nothing to Sherlock that he didn’t want, a law that was senseless in their case and even more so their (imaginary) mother could keep their opinions to themselves.</p><p class="western">They would have to be very discreet about it, naturally. No visible bite marks. No rumpled clothes when Sherlock went back to Baker Street. Mycroft would get a balm for their lips so their kissing wouldn’t leave too many traces. But he wanted this, and Sherlock wanted this, and to hell with all the stupid second thoughts and doubts and what-if’s. Mycroft would organise false papers for both of them as discreetly as possible so they could escape or rather elope if push came to shove, and they would talk about a lot of things but not right now. He had let Sherlock – and himself – wait for so long because he had been a coward and an idiot, and this was not the time for in-depth conversations about the precautions they would have to take to continue their forbidden relationship that had only now started so promisingly.</p><p class="western">It was still too soon for full-on intercourse and frankly, Mycroft wanted them to enjoy the road there, the anticipation and the growing intimacy. But he saw no reason to not let his lips and tongue explore everything his brother had to offer to their mutual pleasure. After paying extensive attention to Sherlock's dark little nipples, he kissed his way down on the sculpted stomach, nibbled a bit at Sherlock's inner thighs and then closed his lips around his brother’s dark-pink prick.</p><p class="western">Sherlock moaned loudly when Mycroft sucked him lightly and sloppily at first, then with increased force. He deduced that Sherlock was keeping himself off the edge of coming with all his mind palace had in store for this almost impossible task. His little brother was aroused beyond words and would surely fail at lasting very long, no matter how many techniques he tried. Mycroft let go of his cock after about two minutes of worshipping it (and memorising the infatuating taste as well as each and every one of Sherlock's reactions to that) and lifted the younger man’s arse to explore the wrinkled flesh of his entrance with his mouth.</p><p class="western">Sherlock wondered if one could die from pleasure. His heart was racing and his brain felt as if it was close to turning into jelly for good. Still he fought off coming as much as he could, eager to enjoy this encounter as long as possible. But when Mycroft’s tongue pushed against his hole several times and eventually sneaked inside of him, all his defence systems shut down and he came in hot spurts over his stomach and even his own face.</p><p class="western">“What… about… you?” he brought out with closed eyes – but still seeing stars. He couldn’t imagine sucking Mycroft off now. He couldn’t even imagine moving anytime soon. His first orgasm caused by someone else other than his own hand had totally exhausted him.</p><p class="western">Mycroft chuckled and then Sherlock felt him clean up his cheek and torso with something that suspiciously felt like Mycroft's expensive shirt.</p><p class="western">“Just roll onto your side. Yeah. Like that.”</p><p class="western">Mycroft placed himself on the bed behind his brother and his cock nudged against Sherlock's hole and then slid upwards between his new lover’s lush cheeks. It took him only a couple of strokes before he too reached his crisis, spurting over Sherlock's back and arse. He hurried to clean his brother up once more and used his ruined shirt for drying off his cock as well.</p><p class="western">Sherlock looked so… well, totally shagged to death, as they said, but also very peaceful. And that was how Mycroft was feeling as well. No guilt, no doubt, just peace and a grade of happiness that he had never experienced before. In the end, he had always wanted Sherlock to be safe and sober, and now he knew him in the best of hands – his own. Nobody would ever take better care of his brother. He would never raise a hand against him or blame him for things that were not his fault. There was simply nothing he wouldn’t do to keep him sane and clean.</p><p class="western">“No thinking,” Sherlock mumbled. “Closer!”</p><p class="western">Mycroft smiled and rearranged them on the bed so Sherlock could rest his head on his shoulder. “You okay, little brother?”</p><p class="western">“Mm. Not okay. Great. Thank you.”</p><p class="western">“It was my pleasure.”</p><p class="western">“When can we do more?”</p><p class="western">Mycroft chuckled. “In half an hour?”</p><p class="western">“Ooh!”</p><p class="western">“But… not all the way. Not tonight, okay?”</p><p class="western">“Yes.” Sherlock nodded against his hairy chest.</p><p class="western">“And we should consider taking a shower once we’re able to move again.”</p><p class="western">“Fine. I loved that.”</p><p class="western">“Me too, little brother. I’m sorry it took me so long to get there.”</p><p class="western">“Never say sorry. I must say sorry for everything I did. To you. Magnussen and pushing you and drugging you and…”</p><p class="western">“Let it rest, my dear. Did you just get the impression that I’m resenting you for anything?” Mycroft squeezed him lightly.</p><p class="western">“No. You should though. But you’re too good. Too perfect.”</p><p class="western">Mycroft sighed. “We both know that I’m not perfect at all.”</p><p class="western">“But perfect for me,” Sherlock insisted, his left hand pawing at Mycroft’s chest. The wiry hair that covered it didn’t only look great, it also felt very nice.</p><p class="western">“Well, I do concede that I’m not the worst choice you could have made.”</p><p class="western">“British understatement?” Sherlock eyed him after raising his head.</p><p class="western">Mycroft smiled. “Maybe. We need to…”</p><p class="western">“...talk about plenty of things, I know. Just promise me that you won’t get cold feet.”</p><p class="western">“No. I mean, yes, I promise. No cold feet anymore.” Mycroft nudged one of his long feet playfully against Sherlock's calf and it was decidedly warm. “If you’re sure that a half-bald, middle-aged man who has an unhealthy obsession with his umbrella is the man of your dreams, then who am I to argue with you?”</p><p class="western">Sherlock laughed out loud. “Is there something I should know about you and your brolly, brother?”</p><p class="western">Mycroft smirked. “A gentleman doesn’t give his dirty secrets away. No, seriously. I fought it, you know that. I thought it would destroy you in the end and then even our relationship as brothers would be damaged for good. But since you seem to be so sure…”</p><p class="western">“I have never been so sure about anything in my life.” Sherlock meant it. He meant it from the bottom of his heart and he made sure that Mycroft could see it in his eyes.</p><p class="western">“Then we will have it. If you change your mind though…”</p><p class="western">“I won’t. And yes. I know we’ll have to deceive everybody. That’s fine with me. I… I don’t feel exactly close to anyone anymore, apart from Mrs Hudson. And she will never spy on me or do anything to hurt me. As long as I’m happy, she is happy.”</p><p class="western">And the others? John had left him long ago. They were still friends but they would never be as close as they once had been. His life had become quieter. There would be no need for Molly to provide another corpse so he could fake his death. He had a good working relationship with Lestrade, and Sherlock did like the man, but he was not exactly a friend. He had meant it all this time ago: he didn’t have friends. Besides John, and that was not the same anymore. John would eventually find someone he could love again. He would hopefully never disappear out of Sherlock's life again but he was not around him very often anymore and would be even less once he had found a substitute for Mary. Sherlock was a free man. Who had chosen the one man he wanted to be with, no matter what difficulties they would have to overcome and who had to be left in the dark. It didn’t matter.</p><p class="western">Mycroft nodded. “We will make it work. And now let’s make it to the shower, love. We are sticky.”</p><p class="western">“What about your shirt?” Sherlock gave the poor thing a rather disgusted look while climbing out of the bed.</p><p class="western">Mycroft grinned. “I will wash it and see if it survived this. Next time I’ll be better prepared.”</p><p class="western">“It was messy.”</p><p class="western">“Yes. Very.”</p><p class="western">“Wasn’t it glorious?”</p><p class="western">“Very,” Mycroft confirmed and offered him his hand. “A shower, my prince?”</p><p class="western">Sherlock smiled and pulled him in for another deep kiss. “I’ll follow you anywhere, my knight.”</p><p class="western">“In hairy armour?”</p><p class="western">Sherlock laughed and slapped Mycroft's arse. “Your fur is delectable, brother. I might one day shave it off though just to see how you look without it. And then it will grow back, itching horribly.”</p><p class="western">“Oh my. What have I given myself to?”</p><p class="western">“Me, brother mine. Just me.”</p><p class="western">Mycroft nodded. “As it should be, right?”</p><p class="western">Sherlock pulled him close once more. “Yes. Exactly like it should be.”</p><p class="western">And then they left the bedroom to finally have their much needed shower before they would tackle round two of this night. The first night of many more to come.</p><p class="western">The End</p>
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